My friend Mike, a noted snakeologist, came by Sunday afternoon to check out the dead monster snake’s carcass. Mike brought his snake directory with him.
My adversary was not listed. I repeat: It was not listed!
None of the 3,426 snake pictures (in color) looked like the vicious, aggressive monster I had dispatched. Mike did tell me, after careful examination of the snake’s head, that it was not venomous, which provided some comfort.
And so, I remain in the dark. Had I killed the last of a previously-thought extinct species? Could I sell it on Ebay? Did it have a mate that would come looking for me, seeking revenge, striking suddenly from the cover of a rose bush?
In a bit of a mental health exercise, I have decided to just forget about SNAKE. I had gone decades without meeting its like, and mathematically, I would probably never see another. That’s why, when I take short strolls around the cottage, I carry a stout walking stick. And a taser. And a shovel with a twelve-foot handle. And a shotgun. Taken together, those tools help me forget about SNAKE.
Mental health can have many faces.